


The Crow Encounter

by SparrowWritesFanfiction



Category: The Crow (1994)
Genre: Angst, Bonding, Emotional Repair, F/M, Female Reader, Hurt/Comfort, Rape Survivor, Reader has depression, The Crow 1994, long fic, mentions of abuse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-06
Updated: 2017-06-02
Packaged: 2018-09-22 09:13:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,885
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9600194
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SparrowWritesFanfiction/pseuds/SparrowWritesFanfiction
Summary: You've always been a big fan of the Hangman's Noose band. Now that their lead guitarist, Eric Draven, is dead across the street from you, grief hits you like a mallet. Will you ever get a chance to tell Eric how much he meant to you? (The Crow/Reader Fic)





	1. The Dead Man Walking

You have a ritual for whenever you came home from school. First, dump your backpack on the nearest chair. Second, grab a bowl of chips. Third, change into your much more comfortable pants and soft t-shirt.

And now comes the most important step of all. Take your favorite record out of its paper folder, and play it through all the songs while dancing like a nerd. Oh, and close the blinds.

You discovered the band known as “Hangman’s Noose” just 2 years ago. Despite the morbid name, their music was really good, and unlike a lot of music you usually listened to. It really spoke to you, so much that you wouldn’t notice you were jumping up and down playing air guitar until your apartment neighbors knocked on your door with a noise complaint. It was fun, swaying to the thump of the drums in nothing but your t shirt and underwear, just enjoying yourself.

Your favorite song on the entire album had to be called Shelly. A mournful track at first, it quickly picks up from the long strings of loneliness into a fast paced and frantic guitar solo of manic happiness. The guy who wrote this song, Eric Draven, must be a musical genius! You loved listening to the songs he had composed with his electric guitar. Not many things could touch your soul like that.

Relaxing onto your bed, the record winding down, you can remember just how much Eric’s songs had helped you in the past. When your younger sister died, his songs were there, letting you scream along with their rugged voices and cry until you were hoarse. When fell into bouts of manic depression, the long winding music of the guitar helped draw you back to reality. _Damn_ , you think to yourself _; I wish I knew where the hell this Draven guy was. I’d sure have a long list of things to thank him for._ You wish you had even a hint as to where this band played live. You paid some random guy 2 bucks for this record, figuring it would just add to your stacks of unplayed ones. But it changed your life. You sigh, reaching over and carefully tucking the record back into its sleeve. Maybe someday.

 

Two months later you awake at 11:30 to the sound of distant shattering glass, and a few moments later, screaming. In the dark you fumble for a bathrobe, bursting into the hallway. Your mother, frazzled and hair covered in curlers, has apparently just done the same thing.

“What was that?” You ask through a yawn, rubbing your face.

“I have no idea, it sounded like it came from a few streets over. I’ll call Amelia.” Your mom responded, descending the stairs to get to the dial phone. Amelia was the well-known snoop of this area. She knew every bit of drama that went down In this city, and was thusly a very good informant.

As you descend the stairs you hear your mom talking quickly on the phone.

“Hello dear…Yes, about the noise….Oh, oh my…the big one on the corner?...I see…Is he alive?...Oh dear…”

As you walk over to your mother, you see that she has her ear glued to the telephone and one hand over her heart, gazing out the kitchen window. You lean to see what she’s so scared about, and see alternating flashes of red and blue light from the block a street over. The sound of sirens fills the cold autumn air.

“Mom, what’s going on?” You ask, eyes not leaving the bright lights. Your mother turns from the phone, eyes round.

“Amelia says there was a break in just over there. A couple was assaulted by those damn street thugs, and a young man was tossed out of a window and died. Amelia thinks his name was Eric?” She listens to the phone briefly. “Yes, Eric Draven and Shelly Webster.”

Your stomach drops and you suddenly feel all the blood leave your head. No. No, no, that name can’t be right. Eric Draven is the main composer for The “Hangman’s Noose”. You searched for him all over, you lived and breathed his magical music, and he was living A BLOCK AWAY THIS WHOLE TIME.

 

 

And now he’s dead?

 

The entire year after the incident was pretty normal for you. But, for some reason, no matter what, you kept it as your ritual to listen to the whole album every night. Some nights you cried, heavy and choking sobs as you grieved the loss of your greatest idol, and of your grandparents that just passed. Some nights you danced, stomping to the rhythm of the guitar, teeth clenched as you chased the inner demons that plagued you.

That was the year you spiraled downwards.

2 months after the incident, in December, you were hospitalized for attempted suicide. That same month, as you walked back to your house, you impulsively stopped in front of Draven and Webster’s apartment door. You reached out to it, putting your hand on the abandoned and peeling wood, before shaking your head and hurrying home.

6 months after the incident, mid-April, you walked by the apartment again. By now the door was wrecked, the hinge covered in rust. You pushed it open gently, with no real motive in mind. When you saw the stairs your head cleared and you walked away quickly. _What am I doing?_

10 months after the incident, near the end of August, you got off the bus from your therapy appointment. The woman you visited looked at you like you were crazy, and promptly prescribed you medication that made you dizzy. You vowed to never take it again. Walking home, you slowed down in front of the apartment door again, staring at the shattered window above it. It left a sick taste in your mouth. Before you knew what you were doing, you were sliding yourself between the nailed up boards and were in the dark entry. It was silent except for the distant sound of cars and rain. _What the hell am I doing? I’m trespassing!_ Your thoughts echo distantly in your brain, but nonetheless you climb the dingy old stairs until you reach a single door. After a few moments you open it, ducking under the police tape. You immediately regret it. Moonlight comes in through the shattered window, illuminating the glass shards and scattered papers. Your heart beats rapidly in your chest, sweat gathering in your palms. _I shouldn’t be here, this was a mistake,_ you think, blindly turning and running down the stairs. _This room carries the ghost of death._

It’s been a year since they died.

You sit in your kitchen, legs propped up on the table as you fiddle with a garland of pumpkins. Your mom is just finishing up her decorations for the Halloween party tomorrow, and the house is covered in purple and black bats alongside Styrofoam pumpkins. The paper pumpkin in your hand tears as you chew your lip; you have been holding too tightly, like you expected it to fly away.

A deep discomfort and sadness thumps in the back of your head, a feeling you can’t quite place prickling your skin like needles. You need to get up, get out of this house. Getting to your feet, you don a heavy sweater and grab your messenger bag, ready to go on a night walk. You stop, however, right before leaving. You know where you’re going, and you feel almost like you have to bring something with you. Quietly you step into the kitchen, taking 3 beers from the fridge. One for you, one for Shelly, and one for Eric. A toast if you will. Thus, bag clinking, you slink out the door before your mom can tell you not to go out on devil’s night.

The autumn air is cold against your nose, and your breath comes in icy puffs in the city streets. Suddenly you feel a small patter on your shoulder; it’s starting to rain. _Shit, shit shit,_ you think. The bag you brought is not waterproof. This puts the speed of a cheetah into you as you fly down the dark street, boots streaking through puddles and dampening your jeans.

 _Well,_ you think, _at least I got here in one piece on devil’s night._ You breathe out another cloud of mist, staring up at the foreboding house before you, broken window and all. It’s time.

Soon you’ve skittered under the boards of the door, up the creaking stairs, and into the room you were afraid of for so long. The air in here is still, like it hasn’t been moved in decades, and there is a thick layer of dust on everything. You heave a sigh, eyes scanning the shadows of the room’s corners. The rain continues to fall on the roof, and other than that the world around you is silent.

“No time like the present, I suppose.” You mutter, and walk up to the broken window. You sit under it, and place the three bottles of beer to the side. It was time to move past this.

“Hey Guys. Eric, Shelly.” You begin, as you bring your knees to your chest. “You don’t know me, but I know you. Everybody on the block does, I suppose. I-“ You falter. You’re talking to 2 dead people. What has your life come to? “I’m sorry. About what happened. I don’t know why I’m sorry, I barely knew you. But Shelly, you must have been one lucky girl,” You continue, tracing a circle in the floor dust, “ To have such an inspiring person by your side. I, uh, Eric helped me a lot in the past few years. I don’t know if I would have been able to function without his work. He must have been-“ You can feel the lump rising in your throat, “A really great person. I’m so sorry about what happened to you all. So,” You conclude, wiping a sleeve across your eyes, “I brought these beers for you, as a kind of-“

You’re interrupted by a flutter, and a squawk right next to your ear. Shrieking, you fall to the side, scrambling backwards to see where the sound came from. A crow, huge, dark, and wet, is perched on the metal framework of the ruined window. It tilts its head, and you shake your head, a smile coming to your face. Your carefully planned monologue was ruined by a freakin bird. You’re about to get to your feet when a new noise makes your blood run cold.

Footsteps. Out in the hall.

 _Shit,_ You think, scrambling to your feet, _Shit! I’m trespassing._ _Or,_ you think, eyes wide _, they’re those gang members since tonight is Devil’s Night. Shit!_ As the footsteps get closer and closer, you dive for cover into the darkest corner of the room, partially obscured by an old damp box.

As the door creaks open, you start to tremble, praying anybody who is here leaves soon. Loud stumbling footsteps enter the dark room, along with shuddering breath. You hug your knees closer to your chest. Oh god oh god. Then you see the person, illuminated by the moonlight, quivering in the center of the room. You can barely make out black pants and long hair before the mysterious form lets out an ungodly shriek, collapsing to the floor. You jump in fright, vibrating in fear. What the fuck is going on? The man figure trembles on the floor, before hurling himself to the other side of the room and holding his arms out, almost like he’s in some sort of trance. Then, wailing like a banshee, he leaps out of the window and your heart drops. But the mystery man’s hands grab the broken glass frame, and he swings himself back inside to safety.

You can’t help it, your breath is coming in shuddering gasps now. You’re cornered in the same room as a madman, and there is no way you could get to the door without him catching you. Suddenly the figure stalks over the dusty desk you didn’t see, swiping half its contents off it. A bottle of nail polish rolls into your corner, tapping your foot, and you freeze. The figure punches the glass, turning his head slightly in your direction. If he looks this way, you’re fucked. But no, the man seems to be opening a container of…what is that? White makeup? He’s smearing it over his face, breath coming in shuddering gasps, before carving a wide smile and mime-like eyes onto his face with black lipstick. He stands up in one fluid motion, like a snake. The crow, still in the window, flies over to the man’s shoulder like a house pet. The man-turned-mime turns to the window, staring out at the city below. If there was ever a time to run it would be now. You get into a crouch, ready to bolt. But you freeze.

The man’s head is turned down and to the right, staring at the three unopened bottles of beer you left by the window, and he turns around immediately, scanning the shadows.

Well shit. If he didn’t know you were here in the first place, he sure as hell does now. You’ve managed to freeze in a balancing position, and before you know it, you topple to the side, letting out a tiny “oof’.

The fear you feel when you lock eyes with this mime from hell is like no fear you have every felt before. It sends shocks of electricity down your spine, freezing your hands and legs into place while your stomach muscles contract in panic. Is this how you die?

Before you know it, there are a pair of rain-slick boots in front of your face and you feel an icy hand pick you up by your hair, painfully wrenching you to your feet. You find yourself face to face with the most terrifying sight in existence; a tall man, wet with rain, snarling at you through his makeup.

“What are you doing in my home.” He growls, pulling your hair up higher and making you yip in pain. Your hand flies to your head, a subconscious attempt to stop the pain. He catches your wrist with his other hand, and his skin is like ice, crushing your tiny bones like steel and foam colliding.

“Who. Sent. You.” He says loudly through gritted teeth, emphasizing every word with tug to your hair. You begin to shake violently; oh god you’re going to die.

“Oh god, I- no, I’m not…Please don’t kill me, I-“ You gasp and sob, twisting in his grasp. Your words aren’t coming together right, and the clown man rolls his head, cracking his neck in a gesture of impatience. Suddenly he releases your hand, placing his fingers on your temple and you freeze. A fast forward slideshow of every single time you danced, laughed, and cried to “Hangman’s Noose” Sound track whizzes before your eyes for half a second, leaving you gasping for air.

“Listen,” You protest before he can hurt you again, “I don’t mean any trouble, I just came here to say goodbye, Oh god please don’t-” Your get cut off as he drops you from his iron grip, and you land on the floor, still shaking and heaving. Looking up, you see his brows knit together as he watches you. Suddenly a pale hand reaches towards you, and you flinch, trying to scramble away before you realize he’s offering to help you up. You take his hand, trembling, still fearing he will hurt you again. He is surprisingly gentle as he helps you to your feet, steadying you with both hands as your knees wobble.

“I’m sorry,” Comes a soft voice. Wait. Was that from the clown? “I thought you were somebody else.”

The voice spins around in your head for a few moments, then suddenly clicks into place.

But no, that can’t be. That’s not right. He’s dead.

Slowly turning towards the man, still shaking, you utter the name on your mind; “Eric?”

After a few moments, the clown man gives you a small smile. “I haven’t been called that in a while.” He replies, letting go of your arm.

“Oh my god. Wait, no- Oh my god.” You’re breathless, speechless. Also very dizzy, as evidenced by your knees starting to give way. Eric guides you to the dresser bench, and you sit down with a heavy thump.

“You. You can’t be alive!” You continue, staring at his painted face with wide eyes, “You died a year ago! Tonight! I HEARD you fall out of that window!”

“You’re not wrong.” He replies, eyeing the window with a hidden pain in his eyes. Wordlessly, Eric ghosts over to the three beers, nudging them with his foot. “Having a little party up here, are we?” He cocks his head, “Where are your two other friends, then?”

You blush as he brings your attention back to the moment. How are you supposed to tell him the truth? ‘Oh yeah, I’ve been stalking your house for a year and came here to confess my love for you’ sounds like a great ice breaker.

“Uh,” You fumble, collecting your words as you rise to your feet, “ I’m here alone. The, uh, beers were…” You scratch the back of your head, too mortified to continue.

Eric picks up the 3 drinks, slowly walking up to you. “One for shelly,” He says, placing it on the desk, “One for me” He continues, popping the lid with his thumb, “And one for you.” Finally pushing the brew into your shaking hands before taking a small sip of his own. Suddenly the tall man is on the bench next to you, sitting quietly. “Thank you. I didn’t expect anyone to be here to greet me.”

“How did you-?” You begin, but are cut off as his long finger pokes you softly in the middle of your forehead.

“I read your mind.” He whispers, eyes wide as he cracks a sideways smile. You tremble slightly. Was this a ghost? A hallucination? A demon in disguise? _People don’t come back,_ you think to yourself, _there has to be a catch to this._ You bite your lip, nervous all over again. Then you hear the soft click of a bottle being set down, and a small gust of air.

“What I don’t get,” Eric says, suddenly appearing in front of your knees, crouched on the floor, “Is why you feel such strong compassion towards me.” His fingernails idly scrape across your shoe without him breaking eye contact with you, and you gulp.

“I don’t. Really have a reason. I just wanted to… honor the dead.” You reply, staring down at your drink. It’s a transparent lie, and Eric doesn’t have to read your mind to know it.

Draven lifts his hand up, slowly wagging a finger side to side and making a Tsk sound. “Lying is for thieves and children. I believe you are neither.”

Shit, he’s onto me. You trace the edge of your bottle cap, then push it towards Eric quietly, and he opens it for you. _Liquid courage, isn’t that what they call it?_ You wonder. You lift the drink to your mouth, and take a giant gulp. The acrid taste twists your mouth into a pucker. No wonder people down these things so fast; they taste awful.

Eric smiles from his cross-legged pose on the floor, all shiny white teeth. “First drink?” You hand him his beer from the desk, and for the next few minutes you sit in silence together, him sipping and watching, you trying to get as much alcohol into your body as possible to make this easier. Finally, after you tip the last drop onto your tongue, it’s time to speak.

“Ok. So.” You begin, feeling the effects of having a beer on an empty stomach, “I really, really like you. You make great music, man. I always wanted to meet you.”

Eric places his drink to the side, rubbing his hands over his knees as he listens.

“But I, like, empathized with the music you wrote. Not just the lyrics. The sounds of the guitar. The beat, the flow, the energy that was behind it all. It just…filled me with a kind of joy I had never felt before.” Picking the label off of the bottle, you continue quietly, “ I always, always wanted to meet you in person. To tell you how much you helped me. To tell you about the things I was able to do because of you. But I never could.” You let out a breathy laugh, tasting the beer on your lips. “Well, imagine my luck when I find out I was living next-door to my biggest inspiration, the only guy I looked up to. And he’s fucking DEAD.”

You can’t help it as wet heat begins to build up in your eyes as you continue, “So. I came here tonight because I couldn’t keep it to myself. I wanted to tell someone, something, about the beauty you made me feel. About how you made ME feel like I was perfect the way I was. It had also, y’know, been a year since the incident. And I wanted to say how sorry I was that this happened to you both, god-“ The words catch in your throat as the alcohol lets you bring your sadness to light, tears dripping down your face. “I just wanted to tell you. Some stupid part of me thought maybe you’d like me too, even though I’m just a stupid fan. I wanted you to-“ You Hiccup, keeping your eyes averted, “I wanted you to teach me know to play guitar.”

Silence filled the spacious room, quiet except for drumming of rain and the occasional car down below. You sniffle, scrubbing away the tears from your face as you ready yourself to stand up and leave. You’re mortified that you just met your mentor, and spent your once chance blabbering like a baby.

You didn’t get a chance to stand before cold arms pull you down to the ground, wrapping around your body and pressing you close to Eric’s chest. Your breathe catches, and you smell smoke, blood, and rain on his shirt. The dampness of his hair wets your neck, and you feel his face pressed against the side of your head.

“Listen to me. Listen.” Eric says huskily, squeezing you closer to his cold form, “You are a light. I return to this icy world for justice and for blood, but I am given a reminder of my power to create love and hope. You, You. Are a tether for a boat in the stormy black sea. I thank you for that.” He releases you to look into your eyes, grabbing your shoulders. “Look at me,” He whispers, forcing your chin up so you can meet his gaze,” I am driven now not to live, but to balance the deeds done to me. I cannot stay for you, not for long.”

“O-Okay.” You whisper, looking away again as your eyes grow hot. He pulls your face back towards him, and continues to talk.

“That does not mean I have no time at all. I have some business to attend to in the next few hours, but the night is still young and the stars are not yet out. Meet me back here in 2 hours, and bring anything you need to sleep here.”

“Wait,” You say, pulling away slightly flustered. “What do you mean, sleep here? Like, you want me to come spend the night? Here with you?” You flush _. I mean, I know he is a dead man walking_ , you think, _but this is just strange!_

Eric shakes his head and chuckles, “Well, when you put it that way it sounds like a sleepover for children.” Still smiling, he unfolds himself from the ground and rises up, the crow landing on his shoulder. “These late hours of the night are all I have. Come the morning, I have to do what’s right, for me and for Shelly.” He nods in your direction, slowly setting off towards the broken window.

“Wait! Wait. So,” You repeat, hoping you don’t get anything mixed up, “Two hours from now, be here, bring two sleeping bags, food, and anything else I might need to be here?”

“One sleeping bag,” Eric calls as he steps one foot out of the windowsill, “I don’t sleep. Dead, remember?” The crow squawks, disgruntled at being thrust out into the rain.

“Oh yeah, yeah.” You reply faintly. Remembering something, you quickly turn and grab Shelly’s beer. ‘Eric, what should I do with this-“ You stop. The room is empty and silent again, the rain and your heartbeat the only noises you hear. Eric was gone. “-Beer.” Still shaken from everything that has occurred in the last half an hour, you grab your bag and head for the door, shaking your head at how ridiculous this whole thing was.

“Two hours it is then.” You whisper, descending the stairs.

In the distance, a crow cries.

 


	2. Crying, Then Laughing, Then Crying Again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Over 4,000 words, my god. Enjoy. The final chapter will come soon.

Two hours later you’re standing in the middle of the same dark and damp room as before, this time holding a duffle bag under one arm and a threadbare sleeping bag and blanket under the other. You ran to your house as soon as Eric left, carefully picking out your nicest pajamas, some dry shampoo, assorted foods, and toiletries. You convinced your worried mother that yes, you were going to stay safe on devil’s night and yes, you were just going to stay at your good friend’s apartment. You neglected to tell her about the dead rock-star clown.

  
“For such a nice girl, you have remarkably horrible self-preservation skills.” Came a soft voice from the end of the room, and your hair stands on end. You could have sworn you were alone. But, lo and behold, a lanky figure is crouched by the dusty fireplace. You hear the snap of a match and see the little flare of fire touch some crumbled newspaper and split wood, illuminating a smiling face as the light grows stronger.

  
“Why do you say that?” You retort shakily, your nerves still calming themselves down.

  
“Well,” Eric grunts, hoisting a heavy iron poker from the fireside, “A dead man asked you to spend the night with him, alone, in an abandoned building. Really not the safest life path you’ve decided to take there, kid.”

  
Still prodding the fire with the poker, he gestures to the open windows. You walk over and latch the splintery shutters as best you can; at least now most of the icy wind and rain can’t get in. You hear objects shifting behind you, and you turn to see Eric pulling plastic sheets off of a couch and pushing it closer to the fire, along with a table and frayed loveseat, effectively making a nice furnished room on one half of the apartment. As you listen to the crackle of the fire and the occasional strained grunt, it dawns on you how stupid this is. You’re imposing on a dead man, taking up his ‘magical revenge time’ on his probably limited clock. Not only that, but you’ve invaded his house and caused him to do all this work so you would be comfortable. Regret begins to wind its way into your stomach and your brow furrows in anxiety.

  
“You’re thinking too hard, I can practically hear it.” Eric calls to you as wipes the dust off the table, “It’s really OK that you’re here. I could use some company, anyway. It’s no fun being more alone that I already am.” With a huff, he falls back onto the damp couch, gesturing to the plush seat across from him. You sit down quickly, relishing the wave of heat from the fireplace. You didn’t realize how chilly you were until you started to hold your frozen fingers up to the hot light. Eric shrugs out of his giant damp coat, laying it softly over the couch armrest so it can dry by the fire. You realize upon closer inspection that the coat is not just damp from rain, but with huge spatters of blood. Eric quietly tracks your horrified expression before seeing the coat. He tilts his head back a little and laughs softly. “Don’t worry, it’s not mine.”

  
You grimace, clearly uncomfortable. “That’s equally as disturbing.”

  
The smile fades off of Eric’s face as he leans forward, propping his chin on his hand to stare at you. “There is no Heaven or Hell, you know. Just an infinite limbo, a true neutral. The only place with real good and bad, with a real balance, is life on Earth. And because of that, the balance of life affects the balance of the universe.” He reclines into the back of the couch, staring at the fire. “Sometimes the balance is disrupted so profoundly that the limbo itself has to fix it. It might be restored through birth, or through death. It might be horrible. It might be bloody. But balance is unbiased about trivial human morals; it’s just. Balance. And that’s what I came to do.”

  
A few moments pass with no sound but the crackling of the fire and the distant howling wind outside before Eric turns to you. His eyes quickly widen at your expression; your mouth is agape, your whole brain stunned. No Heaven. No Hell. Nothing.

  
“Oh.” Eric says in alarm, curling his hands up, “That was probably too much to tell you right now. Ah,” He lands his closed fist in the middle of his forehead, eyes shut, “I’m sorry. I’m sorry about scaring you. Sorry.”  
You take a de

ep breath, brain spinning. It was a lot to take in. But, you suppose no other living person has ever had true first-hand information from an actual dead person. It was sort of liberating, in a way. Now that you knew that there was no giant cosmic judge, always determining your placement even after life, you could breathe a little easier. You squeeze your eyes shut, willing your brain to stop running in circles with existential thoughts.

  
“Hey. Are you alright?” You hear a murmur and feel two cold hands grasp yours. When you open your eyes you see Eric reaching across the table, brow furrowed.   
“Yeah. Just. A lot to take in.” You breathe, acutely aware of every centimeter of skin the monochrome man is touching. His hands are practically skeletal, like cracked fine china, and just as cold. They’re beautiful. Eric nods his head silently in reply to your previous statement. You shakily withdraw your hands from his lest he decide to peep inside your mind again.

  
“That reminds me. I know you said not to bring anything for you, but it’s so cold tonight, and you were a person, so…” You trail off, holding up a thick fleecy blanket spangled with white stars. “I didn’t want you just sleeping somewhere cold and damp.”

  
Eric breaks into a soft smile, accepting the blanket and throwing it over his shoulders. As he lifts his arms up to adjust it, wide gashes open up in his shirt; knife gashes. You gasp in alarm as he raises his eyebrows at your surprise. “I’m fine.” He replies, “But I appreciate the sentiment.”

  
“Wh. What happened? Were you in a fight?” You query, already wary of the bloodstained coat.

  
Eric holds your gaze as he pulls the blanket closer. “Yes. I had to kill someone.” He replies quietly.

  
“Why?” You practically whisper, blood running cold.

  
His face visibly darkened, and his posture immediately stiffened. “Because he raped and murdered an innocent girl.”

  
After the initial cold shock of the statement swept through you, tides of anger flared through your chest, unfolding into white-hot swaths of rage. Like the wings of a vindictive phoenix. “Good.” You whisper, breathe catching in your throat. “I’m glad. I’m glad he’s dead, then. All of them deserve that.”

  
Eric seems taken aback by your statement. Clearly even he knew it wasn’t a healthy sign to be perfectly fine with a murder. “All of who?” He asked.

  
“Those scum. Any rapist deserves to die. Slowly and painfully.” You reply hotly, without thinking. You refuse to look Eric in the eye, instead looking at the flickering embers in the roaring fire as tears start to well in your eyes. You never even broached this subject with anybody else. It hurts too much.

  
A muscle in Eric’s jaw ticked as he furrowed his brow, clasping his hands together and waiting a few moments before softly speaking. “Did somebody hurt you?” He said in a soft voice, like he was trying not to scare you aware. His query stabbed you in the chest.

  
“Yes.” You reply after a few seconds, almost choking on your response.

  
“How badly?”

  
“Really badly.”

  
You can’t help it now, tears are flowing down your face, hot and damp and terrified. Something about the fact that Eric was actually taking the revenge you’ve always wanted to take on your tormentor is just too much, and your shoulders shake. You muffle your sobs with the back of your hand, squeezing your stomach with your other arm. Stupid crying girl. Stupid, stupid, stupid. Bawling in front of practically a stranger. Through your tears you feel a dip in the foam of the loveseat beside you, and a couple seconds later a blanket covers your shoulders. You just start to cry even harder as two cold arms circle your body, and a sharp chin rests on your head. Eric is protecting you at your weakest.

  
You don’t remember how long you’ve been crying for. You only feel the painful jabs in your chest and the ripped fabric of Eric’s shirt as you cling to him like a child. It takes you a while to calm down, and as you come back into yourself you realize the man next to you is gently rocking you both side to side, humming softly in his throat. Calming you. You hiccup quietly as the last salty trails start to dry on your cheeks, and you take a shuddering breath.

  
When you finally sit up straight, Eric is looking straight into your eyes. “I can kill him, if you think it’s right.”

  
For some reason, this makes you burst into laughter.

  
You wheeze in a fit of uncontrollable giggles, smiling ridiculously as Eric looks slightly worried by your immediate mood swing.

  
“I’m sorry,” You gasp between fading giggles, “It’s just that, even a few months ago I would have taken that offer happily. He hurt me badly, and god knows I still want him dead. But he’s in jail now, and all hurting him would do now is give him power. Prove that he really marked me, scarred me. Prove that he damaged me for life. And I refuse to give him that power.” You smile weakly up at Eric, wiping away the last of the dampness from your face with the back of your hand.

  
He brushes a strand of hair off your face and tucks it behind your ear. “You, little girl, are wise beyond your years.” You give a small smile in response, falling sideway slightly to rest your head on his shoulder. You feel like you learned more about life in the past hour that you have in your 18 years of existence. The balance of all things, the pendulum that only affects one small part of existence, and your power to control which way it swings. You feel stronger, wiser. For the first time in years, you feel liberated. Free to move through your time on earth without worrying about the consequences the future brings. Eric tucks the starry blanket around both of you, and you watch the fire snap and pop in the silence of the rainy night.

* * *

  
It feels like years later when Eric speaks again. “What are you thinking about?”

  
You pop your knuckles idly, stiff from disuse. “Life ‘n stuff.”

  
You feel him silently laugh, the deep rumbling that vibrates your skin and makes your hair stand on end. He moves to stand up, popping his joints, and you have to bite back the urge to yank him back down and curl in closer to his sinewy form. He may look like a scarecrow but that was some of the nicest couch cuddling you’ve ever experienced, no matter how mildly awkward it was.   
You sit up straight and stretch your legs, rolling your ankles slowly as Eric moves to put more wood into the fireplace.

  
“Eric?”

  
“Yes?”

  
You bite the inside of your cheek, hesitating. “Will you play for me?” you nod towards a cobwebbed acoustic guitar in the corner and he follows your gaze. Suddenly he fades into what seems to be thin air, appearing back on the couch with his guitar in hand.

  
“With pleasure.” He replies, and you smile. For a few minutes he sits cross-legged and plucks the guitar back into tune, his mouth a thin line of concentration. Having his musical instrument back in his hands practically makes him glow, and you can see underneath the ragged clothing and smudged paint the young man who was on your faded album cover, sitting with his arms wide on the roof of a car and grinning like the whole worlds was one big candy store.

  
“Aaaand we’re in business!” He says suddenly, running a finger down all the chords. “Any requests, ma’am?”

  
_Shit, what songs do I know on guitar_? You think, furrowing your brow. “Wish You Were Here, by Pink Floyd. You know it?” You ask.

  
He raises a single eyebrow, strumming the introduction chords. “If I remember correctly,” he says, continuing to play, “This song has vocals.” He stares pointedly at you, and you blush. He’s asking you to sing along.

  
“Can’t we just keep it acoustic?” You plead. You did love to sing, in fact you have been in a casual choir since you can remember. But it’s absolutely mortifying to sing by yourself. Eric slaps a hand over the strings, effectively silencing the song, and you hold both your hands up in defeat. “Ok, ok. Fine. Keep playing.” You mutter. He nods, picking back up the song where he left it.

  
“So, so you think you can tell,” You start off, breathy and shaky. Nervous to sing in front of the man who inspired you to pick up singing in the first place. “Heaven from hell? Blue skies from pain…” Your voice wobbles as a low voice chimes in, lower than a whisper, “Can you tell a green field, from a cold steel rail...” Eric is singing along under his breath, watching his fingers as he flicks different chords.

  
“A smile from a veil…do you think you can tell.” You both sing, you less nervously now. Your quiet duet winds and twists its way through the semi-darkness, full of unsteady inhales and broken notes. It’s far from perfect, but you think it may just be the most beautiful song you’ve ever heard. It fills the night air with gentle music, pushing away the shadows of the evils that were done in this room. Eric strums the last chord with a flourish and you applaud politely, delighted. He gives a mock bow from the couch.

  
“I think if magic exists in the world, it’s in music.” You say. Eric nods affirmatively as your start to rummage through your bag, searching for your toothbrush. It’s getting late; it must be around 12 at night.  
“What else can make you feel something so quickly? Change your mood so effortlessly?” Eric murmurs, leaning his head against the neck of the guitar, “Music can make you happy or sad. It can conduct your feelings like a live wire, and can leave an artist’s heart open through composition. Music can change the whole feeling of a room in a single second; it can change who you are. Can anything else do that?” He falls silent again, a rumpled heap of black and white on the couch. It’s now that you notice that even the air around him feels…irregular. Wherever he stands or sits, if you reach hard enough, you can feel the ocean of rage and grief boiling under his skin, keeping him alive. The air around him is tense, and it makes shivers run down your spine. He is the embodiment of sorrow. But he is also the embodiment of passion, of revenge. And he is beautiful in his stark inhumanity.

  
“Hope.” You respond after a few moments, in a soft and open tone. “Hope, and Love.”

  
Eric says nothing, but you can feel his eyes on you as you continue to look down at your bag and avoid his gaze. You’ve said too much. He’s read you too easily, like the pages of an open diary left carelessly on a desk. The contents of your bag rattle as you try and break the tension by rummaging harder. It’s not working. You start to berate yourself for your impudent word choice, but are stopped mid-thought by a cold hand sliding over your wrist, locking its long fingers around you.

  
‘Why do you care about me?” A quiet voice comes from your right, rough and sad. You jerk your head even further away and try to pull your wrist out of his grasp. This just makes Eric wrap an arm around your shoulder and drag you closer to a distance where you can’t not confront him.

  
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. We just met.” You lie through your teeth and your voice breaks. You feel that throaty laugh again, making your shoulder vibrate from being half-pressed against his chest.

  
“When I touched your head, I saw everything. Birthdays, family, fevers you had when you were just a little girl. Nothing escaped me. Especially those nights when you thought you were alone in your room, just swaying to my music. I poured my heart into that, you know.”

  
Tears spring to your eyes, a painful lump clogging your throat. Oh god, here come the feelings you tamped down for so long. “I’m sorry.” You respond, voice almost a whisper. You still arch your body away from his, straining from his grasp in a vain attempt to conceal your feelings. “I’m sorry that I fell in love with you like a stupid girl. A girl who likes a few pieces of music, who’s never really known you. A dumb girl with her dumb feelings. I know you don’t want them.” You feel your stomach spasm in your body’s attempt to shed the hurt you refuse to feel. But despite all your half-assed resistance, you are pulled backwards into Eric’s chest, hands still caught tightly in his. You feel his chest rising and falling against your back, feel the coolness of his breathing ghosting over your hair.

  
Another quiet and almost-sad chuckle ripples through the man behind you before he speaks. “Did you know that when a person dies, the things they poured his heart into act as a pathway for their very essence? A conduit where others can feel their presence?” Eric shifts, leaning over you and holding you tighter. “If I were still alive, I would have said yes, you may just be a big fan who doesn’t understand what love is. But I felt you ever day. I never knew who it was, but now I do. I felt your passion, I felt your heart splitting open, every single day. Love for someone is a powerful thing, something that can cross realms, build bridges. You didn’t fall in love with a song. You fell in love with me. And I think that that’s beautiful. Thank you.”

  
That’s all it takes for you to burst into tears. Not angry small ones like before. Big, full, rolling tears that cascade down your cheeks and dampen Eric’s sleeves. Your body convulses as you cry. Eric moves quickly, pulling you back to lean on his chest, running a hand over your head and murmuring something you can’t quite hear as you retreat deep into your mind. You’re not just grieving a love that can never be anymore; you’re grieving all the things that have happened to you in life. You feel the pain of your grandparents passing, the sting of being shunned as a child, the burning fear of those that hurt you again and again. You feel like your brain is a massive ocean that churns and roars down to fathomless depths, or an infinite dark sky that holds painful secrets hidden between the occasional stars. You cry, and cry, and cry. Pouring out the futility of a perfect life, the hopelessness of existence, the hate of mankind that has burned for thousands of years. You cry.

* * *

  
It takes about an hour for you to start feeling your fingers and toes again. It’s like your consciousness fled as your body was wracked with terrible pain, only returning when your cheeks were puffy and pink and stained with salty trails. Now you feel Eric’s hand that was clapped over your forehead begin to loosen, feel the tremble of the body behind you and hear his heavy breathing. You shift your body to face him in concern. Why is he shaking so badly?

  
When you see Eric, he’s a wreck. Trembling like he just ran 20 miles, eyes a bright red like he had been sobbing too. The black-and-white man finally lets himself relax and his body sags into the loveseat armrest, spent.

  
“There.” He says shakily, “It’s all gone.”

  
Your eyes widen. He’s right. It’s all gone. It’s ALL gone. All the pain, all the insecurity, all the fear you’ve ever built up in your life. The layers and layers of negativity every human wears every day and never notices have suddenly evaporated. You feel like you’ve been scrubbed on the inside and out and realize that your brand new neutral state is happy, calm, collected. Even just sitting on a loveseat, you’re unbelievably joyous in the way only enlightened monks have claimed to feel. The more you think about what just happened, the more you remember. Now you can recall Eric bracing your head with his hand and whispering let it go, I’m here, I’ll help you, I’m here. He wasn’t just bracing your head; he was holding open the gates of your memory, the ones that people can only open for a few seconds on their own. In doing so, he endured the weight of your memories and feelings rushing past him like millions of gallons of water. He felt every bruise, every suicidal thought, every rejection and every second of fear. And he kept holding the gates open. For you.

  
“Oh my god, Eric.” You croak, voice still scratchy from the endless sobbing. You hoist yourself over to the trembling man, quickly brushing his hair out of his face as he quietly regains his breath. “Jesus Christ. Thank you, I mean. Oh my god, do you need anything? Water? Snacks? Shit, did I pack snacks?” The words come flying out of your mouth as you anxiously flutter your hands all over him, making sure he’s really alright. You scan the room for anything that could help him; he looks like he’s on his deathbed. God, what did you just put him through?

  
Your panic is interrupted by shaking laughter from underneath you, and you look down again at Eric who you’ve practically clambered on top of. He’s giggling softly, head hanging off the armrest.   
“You’re the most impossible person I’ve ever met. I just worked my ass off to free you of all your panic and fear, and here you are, panicking again.” He laughs in a grating voice, eyes closed, and you flush automatically. He’s right; the first thing you did was panic. Good one. Also, you’ve managed to practically pin Eric to the couch underneath you, and you’d be lying if you said he didn’t look appealing with his shirt all rumpled right now. You skitter backwards like a scalded cat to give him his personal space as he slowly gets back upright, exhaling heavily.

  
“I think that’s enough random bouts of hyper-tense spiritual healing for tonight right? You need your sleep. Thant’s what humans need, I remember that part.” He grunts as he stretched. You watch the tall sinewy man gather up the scattered blankets and old pillows, going so far as to roll out your family-sized sleeping bag a few feet away from the dying embers of the fire.

  
“I-I need to get changed.” You object as he starts to unroll the bag, and you slip off the seat to grab your pajamas. Upon seeing them unpacked you regret not bringing something with a little more coverage. They’re just a matching set of white shorts and a tank top, both trimmed with a little pink bow and patterned with tiny strawberries. Scanning the giant dark room around you, you see plenty of shadows but no rooms to change in.

  
‘’Just change, I don’t mind.” Eric says. You notice that now he’s sitting cross-legged right on your sleeping bag, hands folded in his lap. “I won’t look. I cross my heart and hope to die. Again.” As evidence, he squeezes his eyes shut and tilts his head so hair hangs over them. You can’t help chuckling a little bit; he looks like a wet mop when he does that.

  
“Stop laughing and get changed. Sleeping is important.” Comes his slightly muffled voice, and you hustle to comply, shimmying out of your day clothes and slipping into the soft cotton-y goodness of your favorite pajamas. You still do feel ridiculously exposed, though, but try to brush it off as you run your fingers through your hair. If you can trust this man with your innermost thoughts, you can sure as hell trust him with how your body looks.

 

You turn around and freeze instantly. His eyes are wide open, staring evenly at you. A dusty pink flush creeps down your cheeks and neck.

  
“You’re beautiful, you know.” He comments softly, cocking his head. “A lot of people have told you that you weren’t, and you believed them. But you’re beautiful.”

  
You can’t help it, you screech in a very un-cute way. “You promised not to look at me changing!”

  
“I didn’t. I waited until you were done.”

  
“You should have waited for me to say turn around!”

  
“You never told me that.”

  
You sputtered, at a loss for words. There was no real anger directed at him in your words, just blushed embarrassment. “Just let me get into bed now.”

  
Eric scooches to the side just a few feet, enough for you to slide into the giant flannel pod. There’s enough room in here for at least three people, and you stretch your legs out contentedly. The sleeping bag has a long pillow sew into the top; it’s lumpy, but good enough to rest your head on. By now the room is almost dark, illuminated in gentle oranges and reds by the dying coals, which also make the air by you not shockingly chilly anymore. You muffle a tired exhale under the blanket, still aware of how close Eric is sitting next to you.

  
“You’re exhausted.” He notices, brushing a strand of hair behind his ear as you nod sleepily. Silence drops back over the room for a few minutes as you both listen to the gentle pops and shifts of the ash in the fireplace. You waited for him to say something, eyes peeping over the edge of the blanket.

  
“…You want a bedtime story, don’t you.” He chides in a soft tone. You wiggle a little bit under the blanket; you really do. It’s childish and ridiculous, but something tells you that he may know a few good ones, something to help you sleep.

  
Eric slides closer to you before resting a hand on your head and running his fingers through your hair. His leg is so close that you could touch it with your nose, and you push your forehead against the side of his thigh. His pants smell like smoke and dirt, you observe sleepily.

  
“Alright, let’s see.” He begins, clearing his throat. “There once was a beautiful princess who lived in a faraway land, in a faraway castle, with her faraway cat named Silver. This princess loved to sing. Every day, she sang her heart out-“

  
“Eric?” You murmured sluggishly, holding one last question on the brink of sleep.

  
“Yes?”  
“Will I ever see you again?” You ask, pulling your face closer to his leg. You already knew the answer.

  
“No. This has to be the last time.”

  
A lump rose a little bit in your throat. “Ok.” You whisper in a cracking voice, “Make this a really good story, alright?”

  
“I promise.” He replies as he runs his nails softly over your scalp. The words sound foggy and distant.

  
You just catch the first few muted words of his story before dark creeps over you, sending you off in a tiny boat to the darkest and deepest slumber. 

**Author's Note:**

> I know the Crow fandom is small as of now, but i hope that this brings some of you some joy.


End file.
